She’s a Gothic cathedral, ribcage folding in on her lungs, shoulderblades sharpened on 8x10s of stray cat girls with coat-hanger hips. Her spires have forgotten they reach for heaven. Someone untied the knot at the end of her spine and the beads are falling off their string. Someone scooped out her heart with empty-spoon jaws. She’s a forest of brittle branches breaking.
Nic Carlson is a writer of both poetry and prose whose pieces focus on LGBT themes, the interaction between humanity and nature, and emotional connection. They are a native of Kansas, recently transplanted to the east coat by way of the frozen north.